When the Circus Arrives
by AshDuet8401
Summary: The excitement of a reveur when Le Cirque des Reves arrives unexpectedly is unmatched by anything save the wonders that lie within. This is an image of that magical night when you enter the circus- whether it is the first or hundredth time.


Snow falls softly, invisible against the deep twilit sky until it spins into the golden pool of a street lamp's light or the harsh fleeting shaft of a hurrying car's light. The flakes spiral daintily, gathering to the ground in soft drifts that have their own faint luminescence, casting a frigid cast of light up into the dark night.

You feel it, a sense of excitement in the air that is something more than what a fresh snowfall can provide. You stand up from your book, just feeling the air, just looking out your window at the gathering show, a familiar longed for pattern of white on black.

Your decision is made as you reach for your coat, smiling as you wrap yourself in its midnight black downy folds. You are barely aware that you have pulled on black boots, a white hat and gloves.

You reach into the closet one last time, your hand tracing the knitted folds of your very favorite scarf. Maybe it is wishful thinking, but you can't help but smile as you put it on, feeling the familiar warm softness against your neck. It is a wonderful piece of work, all cables and lacy bits in a deep, ruby red. It took you weeks to finish.

You step outside, gasping at the cold sharpness of the air. But out here, in the stillness of night, the feeling is stronger, an intangible sense of joyous anticipation.

You start walking, rubbing your arms to fight off the cold, pulling your scarf up over your face, leaving only your eyes bare as your feet find their usual paths among sidewalks and pavement, in and out of streetlit circles, the steadily falling snow your only companion.

You reach the edge of the buildings and look up, hardly daring to hope for the sight that has lingered on the edges of your dreams since the last time you saw it. Your breath catches in a way that has nothing to do with the cold, as you focus your rapt attention on the tall spires, the billowing fabrics, the elegant black and white stripes of countless tents rising in their simplistic beauty from the snow-covered ground.

It looks like it has always been there, perched between the pale snow and the inky sky. Your hopeful smile breaks into a full fledged grin as your legs obey some unconscious signal and begin to run. It is here. You are not completely certain that you are not dreaming, but even if it is a dream, you are, after all, a _rêveur, _and this is without a doubt _Le Cirque des Rêves._

You arrive at the entrance out of breath but racing with energy. The gates are open, and the beautiful clock beckons, shining from behind with warm white light. The lady in the ticket booth greets you with a smile, waving away your attempts to pay and handing you a ticket with a warm hand.

"Thank you," you murmur, your voice somehow muffled by the snow and the silence.

You do not pause as you enter, striding forward with childish delight. You are distracted at every turn by the intricate signs, the scent of caramel and popcorn, and the occasional sight of some unexpected wonder- real live statues buried under layers of snow, a grinning girl with kittens clambering over her arm, a lock of red hair escaping from under her white hat. You stop for a moment by the warmth of the bonfire before letting the crowds push you again, following where there is space, noting the many people dressed as you, in black and white and shades of grey, with their distinctive touches of brilliant red.

You hesitate, for some reason, to enter the tents, knowing that you will likely spend longer than you mean to, knowing that you have plenty of nights coming up in which to discover these wonders, to visit your favorite tents and to find new breathtaking surprises.

As you roam further from the bonfire, following a feeling, shivers start to creep past your warm coat, so at the next stand you pass you purchase a hot cider, cupping it gently in your hands and relishing the sweet taste of apples and cinnamon. It is even better than you remembered.

Finally you find it, the tent that you always visit first, the tent that holds such special meaning to you even now, especially now, in the frosty cold of winter.

_The Ice Garden_

_We Apologise for any Thermal Inconveniences_

The sign at the gate reads, in fancy swirling font. You run your hand over the letters, smiling at the polite warning. It will be no colder than the weather out here, and you still have some cider, still warm in your protective hands. You duck through the black and white striped entrance, hungry for the beauty that lies beyond.

The Ice Garden is just how you remembered, endless twisting paths between crystalline wonders, a marvel of plants and vines and flowers, trees overhead with swaying ice branches, the translucent curves reflecting sparkling white light everywhere.

You wander amongst the perfect icy groves, brimming with joy to be here, in the place you love the most. It seems deserted, but for you, the only one to come here in the middle of winter, to trade cold outside for cold inside, bustling energy for perfect stillness.

But you are not alone. You can feel that they are here, feel them in the quiet and stillness. You think you hear the rustling of skirts, the soft murmuring of voices. You see their distorted reflections in the crystalline flowers around you- the fingers of a white glove, the gaze of a grey-green eye. You almost catch a glimpse of a top hat- or is it a bowler hat- between the branches of one icy tree.

Your smile fades to one of regret, one of respectful sadness. You turn to leave, plucking a rose from its branch as you go. Turning it over in your hand, it melts smoothly into a real rose as you step outside.

It is not quite the same, outside the tent, as how you left it. There is still a stream of happy people, but there is much less colour than before, only black and grey and white and touches of scarlet. You join the stream of patrons, making your way back toward the bright light of the bonfire, eager to warm up. But before you get there you pause, pause at a raised platform with a statue-still occupant.

You hold up your rose, gazing up through the dark hair tied with silver ribbons, past the shimmery pale skin, to the bright, alert eye of the Paramour. You know she sees you, and you wait patiently as she turns, movements almost undetectable. The papers of her love letter dress barely rustle as she slowly, very slowly reaches out her arm and opens her hand. You wait patiently as the sparkly hand touches around the rose's stem, making absolutely certain that she has it firmly in her grasp before you let go. You bow, and hurry away, but not before you see the almost imperceptible nod of her head in thanks.

The exchange, simple as it is, takes nearly five minutes, and you are wracked with shivers by the time you finish. You hurry toward the bonfire, discarding the empty cup of your cider along the way, considering stopping for another warm drink but deciding that the bonfire is more important.

When you reach the sparking white flames you simply stand for a while, letting warmth seep back into your body. When you finally feel warm enough, you look around yourself, surprised to find you have dropped a glove somewhere in your rush for warmth.

You frown at your hand, trying to remember, and turn to retrace your steps, but you find someone behind you already.

"I believe you dropped this," the man in the grey suit says. He wears no red- he is no _rêveur_- but there is something, some energy, about him, that makes him seem like he belongs here. He holds out your glove, and you take it with a relieved smile.

"Thank you, Monsieur," you say. It seems appropriate.

He does not smile, but there is something of amusement in his eyes. "It is not everyone who comes here," he says, "to whom Marco and Celia appear,"

You are not sure you fully understand his words, but you nod your head respectfully as he walks past you toward the bonfire. It is with a start that you realise he has no shadow.

You move quickly from the spot, looking around yourself with renewed interest, even as you glance worriedly up at the brightening sky. Dawn is not far away, but you are anything but tired. You read the signs, this time barely passing any unvisited. The night slips by quickly, as a dream, but you are safe deep within it, watching the acrobats and illusionists, exploring the delights of the labyrinth and the cloud maze, feeling the awe and power of the elusive fortune teller. When the night ends, you are one of the last to leave, yawning your way across the field as the sun rises, sending beams of new light over the world. The snow has sunk into your boots and coat, leaving you feeling wet and cold. The memories of the night swirl through your mind, leaving you feeling like one who has just woken from a wonderful dream.

You glance behind you often, worried it will have truly been a dream, but _Le Cirque des Rêves_ is always there, sitting comfortably behind you in a mass of black and white stripes. You leave it behind, but you know that you will be there again that night, waiting for the sun to set, waiting for the magical time when the gates will open.

You smile. All your dreams have once again come true.


End file.
